Andra Huang
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Andra Huang is a Gen Z writer, currently in Hong Kong. This is her first publication in a literary magazine.
You’d Hate This Funeral
You’d hate our stiff cheeks and lips. Burlap over torsos, flowers in our hair as we toss ghost money into the pit, almost enjoying the flames. The film of grey in the air that stings our eyes.
You’d shudder at our bows. Ninety-degree, sweaty submissions that do more for us than for the dead. Incense sticks into the ash tray, opposite of birthday candles. The row of bouquets posing at the front—you’d hate for those chrysanthemums to suffocate. They picked a bad picture, too. It’s your black and white ID photo from who knows when—no makeup, no smile, eyes almost cold as now.
You’d despise us for circling you. Reluctant marches around the casket, murmuring why did she leave so soon. We’re taking in everything—creases on the pillow, your folded collar and painted nails, the dusty marble tiles—anything but your face. You’d roll your eyes and demand that the lid be shut: This isn’t a museum. Jump at those cowards, tell the priest to cease his chants—you’re not a Daoist, just born into a superstitious crowd. You’d draw the curtains and blow out the fire and usher us out of the hall. Break the suona with your knee, if you weren’t calcium-deficient. You’d hate the smell. The noise, the colors, the slow-moving rituals. Relatives whom you’ve seen once, somehow getting invited by your siblings. Us for following along. You’d hate how our nostrils scorch as we inhale. And worst of all, in all this grease and smoke, these stares and sighs, you’d hate yourself for making me cry.
You’d shudder at our bows. Ninety-degree, sweaty submissions that do more for us than for the dead. Incense sticks into the ash tray, opposite of birthday candles. The row of bouquets posing at the front—you’d hate for those chrysanthemums to suffocate. They picked a bad picture, too. It’s your black and white ID photo from who knows when—no makeup, no smile, eyes almost cold as now.
You’d despise us for circling you. Reluctant marches around the casket, murmuring why did she leave so soon. We’re taking in everything—creases on the pillow, your folded collar and painted nails, the dusty marble tiles—anything but your face. You’d roll your eyes and demand that the lid be shut: This isn’t a museum. Jump at those cowards, tell the priest to cease his chants—you’re not a Daoist, just born into a superstitious crowd. You’d draw the curtains and blow out the fire and usher us out of the hall. Break the suona with your knee, if you weren’t calcium-deficient. You’d hate the smell. The noise, the colors, the slow-moving rituals. Relatives whom you’ve seen once, somehow getting invited by your siblings. Us for following along. You’d hate how our nostrils scorch as we inhale. And worst of all, in all this grease and smoke, these stares and sighs, you’d hate yourself for making me cry.